What Is The Color Of Night?
by Hansel Graey
Summary: Sanguine is a renegade Dark Brotherhood Sister. Betrayed and hunted down by the very family she clung to and trusted, she swears revenge. Her passionate bloodletting captures the obsession of Mathieu Bellamont.
1. A Lucky Encounter

Sanguine twisted the knife of the Dark Brotherhood 'Murderer', who's eyes widened and slightly throbbed out of his sockets as he gazed into the face of a blood starved demon.

She was indeed true to her name, her no longer living parents having named her after the Daedric god of passionate hedonism. And she was indeed full of enough bloodlust to make the god laugh at the sight of her. Her face had a fine splatter of freshly poured blood, her mouth twisted in a menacing smile that brought out her normally fair features into a maniacal sneer.

"So, Lucien Lachance sent_ you_ to kill me?" Sanguine smirked, too enflamed in the robbing of this man's life to let out any laughter. She just wanted to feel the man squirm under her grasp, her silver dagger slowly being pressed deeper into his stomach. She finally hit his spine, and she paused to admire the ruby liquid that stained the white metal of her blade. "Pity. I was hoping for a challenge." She looked into the failed assassin's face, his expression frozen and suspended in shock from the loss of blood. "May you always walk in the shadow of Sithis, dear Brother." Once she pulled out her blade, she felt the rustle and collapse of his inner cavity and admired the carnage as his organ system poured out of his lower belly.

But it was rather a nuisance, having to leave such a beautiful corpse with its internal paint out in the abandoned campsite for the vultures to devour. She would have rather been attacked in a city. She always did admire the attention the crowds gave to particularly morbid and catastrophic acts she had done.

She looked at her knife carefully, inspecting the glisten of the dark red shine in the pale white moonlight. A sudden craving swept over her, she swallowed the saliva that began to excrete from her mouth and quickly licked the blade, the sharp end nicking her tongue nicely. The coppery taste was surprisingly cold that night, and her peculiar action reminded her of the reason she was at that campsite. She was north of Cheydinhal in the great mountains to admire the Shrine of Azura. The goddess had asked her to slay vampires within a cave. Despite Sanguine's experience in handling those diseased, she chose to decline the offer of the goddess. She was not willing to risk being bitten. She liked the sunlight and the independence that being human provided. Besides her usual bloodlust, if she began craving it on a regular basis, it would greatly interfere with any simple task. And she wished to head south as soon as possible.

What she wanted was nothing more than to return to her homely shack in Bravil and rest for an eternity.

"I see you've failed to disappoint," The rich and dark voice of Lachance echoed off the pure cold. The heavy forecast of grey clouds began to unleash a light powdered snow, which eased the heat of adrenaline that began to pour through Sanguine's veins.

"If only I could say the same for you, Lucien," Sanguine turned to face the robed man, looking at his dark eyes with enough intent and implore to know that he would not dare kill her, just as she knew that if she threw her knife at him or managed to take her bow in time he would vanish into thin air. His methods of discrete approach always held its mystery to her, for he never revealed how easily he could simply slip away. She had always suspected Magicka, or simply a potion, yet she never witnessed him cast or drink when he slipped away. If anything, Lachance's methods were almost cowardice, though she knew from personal experience just how fiery and brave he could be.

"Yes, I find that the Speaker's refusal to allow me to end you to be rather… irrational."

Sanguine let out a smirk, breathing out clouds of moist heat from her mouth. "And I'm sure the Black Hand still suspects me of killing those initiates."

"Your history is evidence enough," Lucien's eyes narrowed but his face still held a scowl of uncertainty. So much _history_ had coursed through their lives, intermingling in a tangled web. It reflected in the way he stood, his hands almost positioned in an uncomfortable stretch as he tensed his gloved hands into fists. The need to resist any urge to lash out or physically contact her was evident.

"Circumstantial, if anything, Lucien." Sanguine slowly breathed deeply and smiled softly. "But I've fared well so far."

"Your luck will run out, Sanguine."

Sanguine swung the dagger into Lucien's direction, throwing it with all her might into his direction. With that exuberant display of emotion, he vanished in black mist, leaving Sanguine to clench her teeth and hiss venomously, "I never needed _luck_, Lucien."


	2. An Evening in Bravil

"Well, hello, Sanguine," Roxanne Brigette looked up at the young woman for a fleeting instant, her eyes vacant and as wide as the void as she stared upwards into her face. "How was your trip? Did you have an enjoyable travel?"

"Yes, I did, Roxanne," Sanguine took off her sack and placed it gingerly upon the dealer's lap. The clatter of glass bottles were like the bells of a soup kitchen, as all of the poor residents swarmed in line to eagerly taste a fresh supply of skooma. "Now my payment?"

"Yes, dear, here you are. I can't thank you enough. Now you have a nice night." Roxanne's voice was still soft, her words comforting. But it was the eyes that Sanguine enjoyed about her the most; that spark that showed that she understood. She had to look deep, past the deprivation and agony that shadowed the pauper's irises.

It was a sad fate, for Sanguine never enjoyed trafficking contraband. But it put enough bread on the table and coin in her pocket to maintain her comfortable lifestyle. As a habit, Sanguine's hand would rise to her collarbone, where a small amulet dangled at her chest. It was weathered, and old. She knew little of this necklace that she had worn her entire life, but she suspected it was enchanted. It had been the only remnant of her family—her _real_ family.

As Sanguine slowly strode toward her home for a welcoming roof over her head and a straw bed to lay upon, she carefully looked over as she passed the Lucky Old Lady, the statue giving off a serenity that she enjoyed to gaze upon. She strode toward it, her hand touching the statue's cold cheek. As she admired the stone carving, she licked her lips and brought her face upon the hard mouth of the petrified woman, enjoying the taste of mossy rock.

"What are you doing?" A familiar voice demanded from behind her, a voice that Sanguine couldn't help but slowly grin with dark thoughts as she slowly pulled away from the statue to face the coward who held a torch. Once she turned into the light for her face to be seen, the man quietly backed off. "By Sithis!"

"Oh, I truly doubt you would be the one to fulfill the contract on my life, Ungolim." Sanguine noticed that another member of the Black Hand was at his side; Mathieu Bellamont. "And it seems you need a body guard just to walk through the streets at night. Sad." Sanguine's condescendence was merely dampened as she gazed at Mathieu, who looked neither frightened nor disturbed by her taunts of the Listener. Normally, any Speakers would immediately attempt to silence her for her insolence, but he stood there, transfixed, as though admiring a piece of artwork.

"Bellamont, kill her." Ungolim quickly backed off as the man took out his blade, a shining short sword that seemed enchanted. It glowed with a purple haze, the mystical magic almost hypnotic to watch.

"Be glad it is such a… resplendent night to die. Your blood will be like crimson rain under this brilliant moonlight."

"And your words truly are benevolent—for what you're trying to do." Sanguine took out her weapon, looking around for any guard on duty. She didn't want to have any witnesses in her hometown see how capable of ripping the life out of a man she was.

Mathieu swung at her, but she quickly dodged and went to swipe her blade across the side of his neck. She hardly reached his skin when he swung the back of his hand strongly against her cheek, knocking her head back with enough force to cause backlash. She gingerly touched the bruising flesh, her heart rate higher and her brain buzzing with exuberance at the thrill of how much danger she faced.

Despite Bellamont's reputation of being the timid old man, he still was spry enough to keep his ground against her. She never faced a high ranked member of the Brotherhood, and she had merely made it to Silencer before her banishment. Never had she met a foe with a fire that disintegrated her stone heart and petrified confidence as though they were made of aged paper. It was about time she had a challenge.

But despite the joy of this foe, she knew she had to take him down quickly in order to survive. She quickly flung to the ground, sweeping her feet to knock him off of his. He fell on his back, and she quickly straddled his stomach and reached to stab him in the heart.

But he grasped her wrist, his strength outmatching hers easily. She tried to lean her body into the knife so it would sink into his ribs, but he pulled back, using one hand to punch her in the chin. She fell to the ground but quickly went back on her feet, tasting her own blood for her teeth had nicked her cheek from the impact.

"Halt!" The deep voice of a city watch guard rang through the scene, instantly putting an end to the deadly battle. "Who goes there?"

Sanguine knew she had to break from the squabble before the Imperial recognized her. Bravil was a small enough town for everyone to know each other, and she was already as infamous as the courts would allow before throwing her rump in the dungeon.

"We'll talk again," Sanguine quietly murmured as she thoughtfully wiped some of the blood from the corner of her mouth. She quickly backed away, creeping into the nearest shadows. She knew every plank and crook of the shacks in the area, which was her advantage at that moment. She blended in as though she _was _the night.

"Coward," Mathieu Bellamont swore, ready to dive at Sanguine if he was not stopped by the small hand of his Listener, who shook his head.

"No, Bellamont, it's unwise to reveal ourselves," Ungolim shook his head as he patiently waited for the guard to reach them.

"Ungolim, are you all right?" The guard was familiar to Sanguine as well; he was a new recruit—lacking the sixth sense of something amiss that was only obtained through years of experience. If anything, the assailants were lucky that night. This Imperial was rather naïve.

"Yes, Argus," Ungolim nodded at the heavily armored lad passively, holding out his torch as the flames danced its luminescence in the area. "It seems a beggar didn't appreciate the word 'no'."

"Strange," Argus looked around for the nameless 'beggar'. "Never knew them to be violent."

"It's always the ones you least expect," Mathieu Bellamont added his own words, his eyes slightly dodgy. He put his weapon away, bowing his head to throw off any more suspicion.

"Would you like an escort home?" Argus rested a hand upon his silver sword, a subconscious action that drew attention to the blade.

"No, no, thank you though. I feel it's time for my friend and I to retire. Good night."

As the guard went back to the streets for his patrol, Sanguine went to take her leave. Slowly, she stepped backwards, careful not to make any further sound.

But it was when the Speaker paused and turned to face her in her general direction. She froze, unsure as to whether to move or not. But Bellamont's attention was stolen at something on the ground, which he knelt to pick up.

Sanguine could barely make out a glint of silver in what was a necklace. Her hand swung up to her neck, finding it bare, the skin feeling somewhat light.

It was the curved smirk that confirmed it was, indeed, her necklace. Mathieu Bellamont looked pleased, which sickened Sanguine. He quickly pocketed the jewelry and joined his master, leaving Sanguine to continue to cower in the shadows.

She knew she had to get it back.


	3. Mommy, Mommy

Mathieu Bellamont's hand fell into his hidden pocket of his black robes, fingering the thin cold chain thoughtfully as he stood above a cowering young woman bound and gagged in the corner. After spending a most undesirable and miserable week as the Listener's loyal body guard, his entire body was aflame with enough confined resentment that he wished to release his anguish and stress upon this recent victim.

She was an attractive peasant, who would perhaps be missed by a family or a string of broken hearts. But the world would be better off without her. Despite her outer beauty, she was two faced and manipulative. She spent her days telling her cult following of insecure girls many forged speeches of inspiration. Then, she would enjoy stabbing them in the back when they least expected it.

"Now," Bellamont took out the amulet and placed it around her neck, admiring how the shiny metal glistened in the dim candlelight over the slightest hint of breast. Her normally peachy color was drained and all that was left was the translucent white skin that trembled as he knelt close against her. "Do you have anything to say before I kill you?"

The girl's eyes burst into tears, a pouring fountain of sobs that caused Bellamont's conscience to push at his beating heart. How sad, that now she would find it a worthy time to expose remorse.

"Mother," Bellamont bowed his head, his voice low as he turned to the shrine he created. He had a flighting desire to provide mercy for the girl. If mercy had been given to him, perhaps his life would have been a little different. With that thought, he turned back to the girl, who jumped slightly and pressed herself even tighter against the wall, her muffled scream choking in her throat. She seemed terrified by the new found passion in Bellamont's eye.

From the next room, the barking of a dog echoed off the basement walls. Bellamont always kept the beast to warn him of any surprise visitors.

"Mercy doesn't exist," Mathieu grabbed the girl by the hair, taking out his blade and slowly digging it into the girl's skin across her neck.

A geyser of blood erupted, splattering Bellamont's face, neck, and chest, with its warm ambrosia. Closing his eyes, he felt that familiar wave of release that he first experienced when he carved the very heart out of the traitor that was his father. It was a high that was better than any skooma or prostitute had ever provided him.

Standing up, Bellamont stretched, inhaling sharply through his nostrils that familiar stench of rotting flesh and newly spilled blood. He turned back at the girl's remains one last time to retrieve the necklace. Dragging the corpse by the hair, he dragged it next to his bed, leaving it to lie limply upon the floor. He paused to remove the dampened cloth of his robes off of his chest. He sat upon the thick mattress, feeling the itchy rough fabric of his blanket against his bare skin. He fell back, enjoying that delicious aroma and release from that fresh kill as he wrapped the chain of the amulet around his fingers.

Bellamont reached at a crate, where his diary rested, greeting for him to have their pages freshly scratched with more secrets and desires. He turned to the freshest page, taking out a quill and leaning over to dip it into the neck cavity of the once breathing girl.

_It's all right, mother. It's almost over. I'm close. So very close. How long have we struggled? How long have we waited? Too long, I know. But it's almost over. I promise._

Bellamont paused, before his mind began to wander over the recent events that had transpired. He was ordered to recruit three new murderers, killed them, and then allowed a sister to take the blame. Normally, this issue was resolved when the Wrath of Sithis was invoked. But it seemed that the girl had overcome the poltergeist.

_I killed them. Three of them. They followed me, and saw you. I had to kill them. And my plans were almost ruined because of them—and they all promised to never tell. But I didn't believe them. They had to go. I was lucky that a Brotherhood Sister had a contract here in Anvil. I managed to take the bodies and had her blamed. But she's still out there, Mother. The Brotherhood are fools, for they kept sending weak initiates to kill her. Why is this? Because of Lachance's request to Ungolim! Even now, Lachance continues to thwart our plans! If I knew where the Night Mother hid like the worm that she is, I would have gutted Lachance immediately!_

_But fret not, mother. I intend to have her killed. Even if I have to break off Lachance's request, I will make sure this girl does not see the next moon! A request is not a tenet._

_I know we will have our revenge, Mother. Lachance is already in my grasp. And my advancement to Executioner means I am this closer to seeing the Night Mother. Soon. Lachance, especially, will be mine. I will kill him._

_Kill. Killhim._

_—_

A knock on the door threw the water over the inferno of Mathieu Bellamont's hungry writing, along with the chaotic howls from his dog. He closed his diary, partially regretting it as the writing would smudge. He jumped to his feet, taking his knife and slowly going to the door.

He opened the door just barely, when he relaxed slightly knowing it was his landlord.

"My God, what is that smell?"

"Rat Stew. May I interest you in some?"

"No," Ulfgar Fog-Eye, his Nord landlord took a step back and covered his nose and mouth. Opening the door had released the overwhelming aroma into the night air. "But the misses complained of hearing a scream."

"I'm afraid I had not heard any screams, or I would have been out searching for the problem. Now, if you'll excuse me."

"Not so fast," Ulfgar held his broad arm out, pushing the door back even farther. Thankfully, Mathieu kept his home so dark that it was almost impossible to see the carnage within. "You forget about this month's rent?"

"Of course not." Mathieu reached for a shelf, not daring to step away from the door. He took his woolen sack, tossing it at the Nord in annoyance. "I added some extra coin to ensure I remain undisturbed. Do you understand?"

"Haven't I always?" Ulfgar greedily took the money and allowed the door to be closed in his face. "Strange guy," he surmised as he walked to his house, shaking the small sack of coins as it jingled into the night air. "But he pays for my liquor." With that, the Nord roared in a deep laughter as he walked to the nearest pub.


	4. By The Book

Sanguine felt naked without her amulet, and she already knew that until she had it she was going to have the worst of times. Besides every small issue that seemed to annoy and wring at her nerves, it seemed that the roads had an increasing number of bandits and feral animals just waiting to jump out at her.

She knew she had to hunt down Mathieu Bellamont soon, but she knew not where he had gone. Ungolim had switched body guards that week, and despite Sanguine's stubborn pursue of the ignorant Bosmer, she had no leads. Nothing to start with.

She intended to find the particular Dark Brother, and the only member she knew was the one she least wanted to see. But she intended to have her answers.

Fort Farragut stood in the cloudy dusk, its looming and powerful stone intimidating to gaze upon. Sanguine remembered faintly of a small passageway that led directly to Lachance's quarters, found in a hollow tree.

After a few minutes of refreshing her memory, she made her way down the rope ladder, feeling the air surrounding her become musty and cool the farther she descended underground.

Looking down at the scene below her, she found Lucien asleep in his bed. She was as silent as she could be, careful not to swing the wooden pegs of the ladder against the wall. Any noise, any sudden movement, would stir the light sleeper. There was no such thing as a murderer who slept soundly at night.

"_You sleep rather soundly for a murderer."_

Once she reached the stone ground, she crept toward the sleeping Imperial, noting that his five o'clock shadow was even darker than usual. It seemed that this moment of his rest was a rare occurrence, for he looked exhausted even as he slept.

Recognizing a fluttering in her chest as that familiar childish emotion of desire, she swallowed, not daring to act on an impulse for once in her life. This was water she never dared tread on. Especially under the circumstances. But still, his lips were full and very appealing to Sanguine's eyes.

She reached to just brush a stray hair from his temple, knowing it would awaken him. She wished to calmly stir him out of his slumber, and as her hand barely reached to graze his skin, she blinked just in time to see the glint of his knife in the dark.

Falling to the ground to avoid death, she merely felt the blade graze her forearm, and the shocking sting of the wound caused her to grit her teeth as she looked up at Lachance, who was over her with bewilderment and confusion.

"Must admit, this was the highlight of my week," Sanguine sardonically hissed as she went to rip off some fabric from a spare set of clothing in her knapsack. With the bare necessities of her knapsack, she took out a bottle of wine which she detested to feel it was near empty. "You wouldn't happen to have any of Tamika's, would you?"

Lachance's eyes narrowed, just slightly, his silence answer enough. Sanguine, deciding to dance and mock the man, ignored him as she quickly sanitized her cut. She would have to apply stitches to herself later on, when she felt secure enough to have both hands busy. Despite her calm demeanor, she kept a wary eye on the man, knowing that he could finish her off at any time. And a part of her wished he would.

"Why did you come here?" His voice was soft, the tone dark.

"One of your… _Brothers_… have something that belongs to me. I simply want to know where he is, so I can collect it." Sanguine went up to her feet, looking down and realizing that the wound was not done bleeding yet. The strangest thing about her was seeing the sight of her own blood. It was one of those things that actually brought nausea to the back of her throat, and a rush of light headedness that would not go away without the aid of some sleep and a meal rich in protein.

"You are in no position to be telling me orders, girl." Lachance stood up, grabbing her by the arm. There was the intention to harm, the raw desire to silence her forever.

"What, afraid to say my name now?" Sanguine scorned, trying to smother the hurt that was headfast and strong in her heart. She felt herself raise her head closer to his face, her mouth just barely making contact with his. "It's only a word, Lucien. Don't let it frighten you."

Lachance blinked, not realizing what Sanguine had just done. But once his brain registered that a most precious part of his body was brutally assaulted, his hands instinctively went to grab as his body collapsed to the ground. His body was on fire, his lungs too inflamed to breathe. He could only groan as he clenched his eyes tightly.

"Now," Sanguine kicked his shoulder, having him lie on his back. "I want to know where Mathieu Bellamont is squirreling himself in. Don't worry, I'll consider sparing him."

After a few minutes of patient silence, Lachance finally regained his composure and opened his eyes slightly. Sanguine took the very same shirt she had torn to dress her wound and took the remnants of its cloth to wipe the sweat that began to form on his brow. "You may no longer be bound by the tenets, Sanguine…" Lachance choked, coughing up phlegm as he tried to get up. "…But I will be loyal until the end."

"You don't even understand the concept of loyalty, Lachance," Sanguine coldly replied before raising her hand to slap him smartly on the cheek. "Now, tell me where Bellamont is."

Lucien began to laugh darkly, his face sneering at her. "You have the nerve to say I am disloyal? When you were accused of murdering those three brothers and sisters, I _loyally_ stood by you. Then the evidence piled on and on. And the day your hearing was set, you fled. I had done my best to put a good work for you in the Black Hand. And to find that the person I placed my faith into abandoned all I worked for-what we worked for._ I_ was betrayed, not you, Sanguine."

Anger rushed through her as did the adrenaline, so Sanguine placed this newfound explosion of energy onto grabbing Lucien by the collar of his robes. "That hearing was a death trap, and you knew it. I would have been found guilty, and secretly exterminated. I spent most of my life in the Brotherhood, Lachance. I wasn't your fool." Feeling moved at finally exposing this to him, she had to swallow away a large choked sob from escaping as a groan. "You stabbed me in the back. But I'm a fast healer. But if you don't tell me where Bellamont is in thirty seconds, I'll cut off something that won't heal or grow back."

Lachance still remained motionless and silent. He stared at Sanguine, daring her to inflict anymore harm upon him. Though her threat was hollow, she had went all that way for some information. And she intended to collect.

Deciding to put things farther, Sanguine tauntingly took the blade edge of her knife, and digging it gently into the black silk of Lucien's robes, cutting and ripping off his clothing as though he was a dirty whore who was about to be violated.

Sanguine began from the collar of his robes and worked her way down, past his chest, down his stomach. She enjoyed this passive behavior that she knew very well was how she flirted. Personally, she was internally sickened by how sidetracked she was, but at the same time she couldn't help but take her time as she allowed the tip of her dagger to barely graze his skin tautly. She remembered distinctly just how sculpted and enticing his body was. Every muscle would flex at the slightest touch, his movements spry and fluid from years of training and preparation.

And seeing the occasional healed over scar that she had not gazed upon since that one fateful night brought that shiver of frustration and mangled lust back into her psyche. She was good to push it away, but just facing him brought back those many memories of her time at the Brotherhood. And it was always harder to maintain control.

Her mind was stolen when her knife went to his naval. Taking advantage of her dazed state, he grabbed her wrist forcefully. Despite getting kneed in a most sensitive spot, he still had enough strength to stop her movement.

Feeling somewhat inferior due to being physically outmatched in strength by two men in less than a month, she pulled her hand back as though he had leprosy.

"The second tenet forbids me from telling you." Lachance was clearly still numbed from the attack, but he managed to sit up slightly in between pained winces, his face contorting into a dark scowl of anguish and disgust.

"Tenet Two: Never betray the Brotherhood or its secrets. To do so is to invoke the wrath of Sithis." Sanguine smiled cockily, getting up to her feet and standing over her enemy. "It seems as though Sithis needs to check how sharp his claws are." Sanguine never did appreciate how Lachance was always by the book.

_Book_… That word brought an epiphany to the young assassin. With that, Sanguine turned on her heels, to the nearest desk and bookshelf.

"What are you… doing?" Lucien growled as he paused to catch his breath as he slithered on the floor, still clutching his genitals in agony. "Stop!"

"Mathieu Bellamont, assigned in Anvil. Thank you, Lachance." Sanguine had found a leather bound book, quickly turning the pages of finding the assigned areas of the family members in Cyrodiil. She quickly closed the book and dropped it on the ground, kicking it toward the injured Speaker. " Til next time."

She quickly went to the ladder and climbed, secretly desperate to make her escape from that stone realm that dug at her heart and emotions like a loosely packed dirt pile.


	5. Paranoia

It was indeed a long journey, from the farthest eastern city of Cheydinhal; she trekked down The Blue Road, choosing to take the road south of the Imperial City. Night had fallen, which suited her just fine. Besides, she had that sense that something was pursuing her. Maybe serving in the Dark Brotherhood had provided her with this sixth sense or the stress of killing people just finally caused her to develop a neurosis of this. But she knew she'd have to play the innocent little renegade and continue on her way for just a moment longer.

It was clear this person did not intend to kill her—at least not yet, anyways. And she was so close to Skingrad that any attempt would be madness and a free ticket to the dungeon. If anything, Sanguine suspected a confrontation only in the city, for her stalker would want witnesses to help prevent the temptation of Sanguine disemboweling this pursuant.

Brushing aside that shiver of excitement away, Sanguine smiled slightly as she could see the great and glorious walls of the city of Skingrad and the idea of purchasing a bed and some fine wine was exactly the pick-me-up she was looking for.

Eagerly, she quickened her pace. She pushed her way through the solid doors of the large city, inhaling the sweet smell of vineyards, sheep manure, flax, and morning glory.

She basked in the city's glory, taking her time to collect her senses. The last time she had visited Skingrad had been on unhappy terms, for she had murdered a couple in their sleep due to contract. It seemed a man driven by jealousy and malice made the contract. It had been the girl's father.

Taking a guard free route through Skingrad, Sanguine enjoyed the sound of the occasional cricket chirping or the drunken snores from a beggar nearby. As she ventured toward the nearest inn, she felt herself relax at the realization that the person couldn't simply follow her passed the guards through the front gates without coming off as even slightly suspicious.

She went to the inn, purchased a bed, and went to her room to unwind with a tall bottle of Tamika's. Being the snob that she was, she refused to let her tongue or wounds taste any other liquid of fermentation. Speaking of which, she undressed the nick that Lachance had praised her with. It was swollen slightly, surrounded with an inflamed red tinge to her normally apricot shaded flesh.

Infection was an annoyance, but now that Sanguine was alone and no longer had that daunting paranoia cloud her judgment, she felt it best to quickly stitch up the cut.

As she prepared a needle with thread, she took a healthy swig of the wine and proceeded with her practicing her medical expertise. As she proceeded to the hardest part of this task, which was needling the thread, she couldn't help but feel that familiar prickle rub up the back of her neck.

A noise had startled her—the barest creak of some wooden splinters in the building. It could have been a mouse scurrying nearby, or simply a fellow guest lumbering to their bedroom.

Or it could have been a skulking Shadowscale , poised to strike the moment she dropped her guard.

Carefully, Sanguine finished the daunting task of stitching herself, while keeping her eyes trained to the door. Any sudden movement, and she'd have her dagger in her hand in less than a second.

She took another long drink of wine, applying another clumsy soak to her newly dressed wound. It was all she could do to comfort her nerves. The noise never repeated itself, and she continued to tell herself it was nothing more than her own imagination plaguing her with taunting paranoia.

But still, she spent many hours refusing to take off her light armor, and she continued to handle her weapon as she sat upon the bed and stared intently at the door.

Exhaustion was beginning to mock her, her eyelids heavy. It wasn't long before that thick blanket of sleep slowly tucked her brain comfortably. Never had she enjoyed the feeling of a soft pillow under her head as greatly as she did at that moment.


	6. Exempt of Emotion

Lucien Lachance, still greatly sore from the encounter with Sanguine, gritted his teeth as he threw a wild attack of anger upon a pile of books at his desk. He swiped them onto the stone floor, a few stray papers fluttering into the air.

"Damn that woman." Lachance was practically immobile, his loins still burning with such intensity that could only be matched by the shame that scorched his confident and bold heart.

Seeing her face again merely brought a familiar sickness invading his senses like a thick poison with no antidote. She had not changed since he had last seen her—she still held that strong and angry expression that robbed him of all common sense and rationality.

Lucien sat upon his bed, wincing as again that horrible throb exploded, spreading the brutal pain all over his body. It seemed rather ironic, if not a curse that the very same woman who had provided him with such pleasure would now be the tool to his pain.

The sound of the latch's creak from the trap door above robbed his attention, but comfort massaged his nerves as he recognized the dark green skin of a Dunmer, the familiar arrogant sneer belonging to that of Alval Uvani. Once the elf descended and was within a reasonable distance, Lachance nodded curtly to his fellow Speaker.

"Alval, what news do you bring?" It took a great deal of strength to withhold all signs of flinching, wincing, and glowering in pain. Thankfully, Lucien knew that Alval was not one for small talk or social interaction unless it was of great importance. And normally, the news he brought were far from mere pleasantries.

"Our Listener sends me to bear you this message: He still intends to be true to his promise to you and ensure that the Black Hand stay out of this matter concerning your former favorite assassin."

Lucien raised an eyebrow, about to coldly throw aside that comment. "I merely wish to make this contract as emotionally void as possible."

"Yes, yes," Uvani waved off Lucien's poor attempt to defend his actions. "Having to end a fellow Sister is a rare occurrence that no one enjoys. But all of our new initiates—the only members who haven't met her—are inexperienced and continue to fail us. Ungolim is sending in this one more assassin. If he fails, then he will have to break his oath."

"And who has the honor of ending this traitor?" Lucien studied Uvani, attempting to hide the electric jolts that he feared would be mistaken to be from an emotional weakness at the matter.

"An Executioner, Mathieu Bellamont. He's the highest rank we have that can get the job done. He's only come across our little renegade just recently, and almost defeated her had they not been interrupted by a city guard."

"I see. Then may Sithis and the Night Mother be with Bellamont in this quest. Thank you for relating this to me. Please tell our dear Listener that I thank him for his keeping in the agreement."

"You've gone soft, Lachance," Alval sneered, his teeth exposed through a thin smile. "Tell me, during her time with the Brotherhood, was she able in satisfying your… appetites?"

"Be gone, Uvani," Lachance tightened his jaw, the heat beginning to glow from his face. "My Silencer will be here soon, and I have no need of you."

"Funny, I believe the Black Hand would say the same for you."


	7. Farwell, Maria

_I hate it! All this lying, all this pretending! Sithis and the Five Tenets be damned! How long do I have to live by their rules? How long before I get my chance? I saw Lucien Lachance yesterday. He was in the Sanctuary talking with Ocheeva. He was right there! So close I could have severed his spine in less than a heartbeat! Oh Mother, never before have I had to exercise such self-control. What's sickeningly ironic is that it was the Dark Brotherhood's discipline that allowed me to restrain myself. I've been a part of their "family" for so long it's a part of me, whether I like it or not. And in all that time I've fooled them all. They see me as a fellow member of the Brother, a trusted family member. Someday soon I will learn the truth about the Night Mother, and when I do, I will use that trust to get close to her. Close enough so that I may rend the head from her body, just as Lucien Lachance did to you so long ago!_

Mathieu Bellamont quickly wiped his quill clean of the blood from one of his latest kills, his hands trembling as his face was moist from the bout of sobs and weeping that poured down his face. He was putting off writing the next paragraph, for the unrecognizable remains of a corpse beside him merely brought anguish and heartache—not satisfaction and delight. He had taken a great deal of acidic potions from the nearest alchemist's shop, breaking down the hacked mutilation into mere blackened soot and bone. Taking a soothing breath, Mathieu leaned back against the wall of his small room, and proceeded to dab his quill in a small ink well filled with blood, and writing the remains of his next entry.

_Damn it, mother! Why did it have to be this way? Maria was so beautiful. She was perfect in so many ways. Why couldn't she handle the truth? Why couldn't she realize her "family" didn't really love her? She was a murderer like the rest of us. Paid to kill in the name of Sithis. I really thought we could be together. Make a real family, with real love. But she told me she could never accept your place in my life. So now she's gone. She didn't deserve to live after the horrible things she said about you. I never should have told her, I know. I'm so sorry. It will never happen again, and the others will never find her, don't worry. There's nothing left of her to find._

He befriended Maria, an Eliminator of the Dark Brotherhood. He even allowed his gentle heart to fall for her, care for her. And it seemed that she was nothing more than a common coward and murderer.

He had _trusted_ her. He truly believed that all the hardships they experienced together—all the tribulations and peaceful moments with Maria—he realized that they were nothing but a shallow pool of shoddy lies and broken dreams.

The things she said about his mother were _unforgiveable_. He wished he could have made her suffer a little bit more. How foolish Mathieu Bellamont felt, and how futile he knew it was. The world was rotten; selfish. There was no such thing as love, not for him and another. The only woman he could ever trust was his mother.

This mistake he blindly allowed to happen would never occur again—he would never let any seductress stray him from his course. His purpose was pure and simple. Revenge. It was impossible for a man like him to truly experience the joys that many creatures in Tamriel experienced daily: Love, prosperity, happiness.

Instead, his fate was clear. Oh, how broken Bellamont felt. The only one who ever loved him—ever cared—was his mother.

He had what he needed, a mother who loved him. He would destroy all those who had harmed the only person he could trust.

Finally, Bellamont quickly added another passage to his diary.

_Mother, I'm about to undergo a contract that will promote me to the rank of Silencer! I am to kill the renegade I met at Bravil weeks ago. Her name is Sanguine. How beautiful, that name. Oh, how I look forward to using her blood to write upon these pages—and to hear her screams. Indeed, she is a challenge I look forward to. And I admit I have not been able to free my mind of her since that time in Bravil. I remember it all so well as though I see her now: Her black hair, so dark that Sithis himself would be envious and her eyes; so bold and with amber heat that I felt stare past my body and through my soul. And I'll be sure to have her scream—to truly beg for mercy. I can see it now._

_I can hear her heart beat. I will taste her blood in her defeat…_

Bellamont paused, studying the rhyme with a fixation. Mathieu Bellamont felt a pang of excitement and eagerness at the prospect of seeing her again. Indeed, he sorely needed a dose of her demonic beauty.

Bellamont took her amulet out of his pocket, holding it gently and with an intensity that made him dizzy. The Listener, Ungolim, had ordered him to hunt her down and end her—by any means necessary, and was given full… _creative_… liberty. Bellamont found it rather amusing and ironic that this woman was hated for _his_ actions.

Bellamont had the rolled up piece of parchment nearby, which he held out and read under the dim candlelight again to confirm his desires again.

_You are to kill the traitor, Sanguine. Find her, and be sure to kill her. The Black Hand wants her heart. Do not fail us. You may end her in any way you wish._

Bellamont's lip twitched slightly as he imagined the never ending options. It was the heat of the hunt, he knew.


	8. Awaken From The Void

A change of plans was called. No longer did Sanguine care about hunting down Mathieu Bellamont.

Sanguine knew that she had to lay low for a great deal of time. And so she decided that it was time to reside in the Jerall Mountains. Already she could make out the many walls of Bruma. She paused to study her map, not wanting to ask anyone for directions. All it took was one informant with loose lips to let someone know she had been nearby. The slightest mistake could cost her life.

She was searching for Capstone Cave west of Bruma, planning to stay there for a great deal of time. She had enough dried meat and supplies to last her a great deal; her plan was to simply hide.

Her pride was tarnished, as she knew this was an action that her once called "family" would have scorned. But she knew all too well that safety often meant behaving like a coward.

After many paces and constant glances at her torn and weathered piece of parchment, the familiar wooden door of the cave brought a relief over Sanguine. Wanting to set camp and clear the place out of any stray wolves, she quickly crept inside.

There was nothing that said, 'Home Sweet Home' more than the smell of damp loose soil, fungi, and the cold that seeped deep to the bone.

Preparing a torch, Sanguine was greeted with an illuminated maze of walls. After exploring the place, she made her decision. This was to be her new home.

Despite the bitter pang of realization on how her life had become—from an accepted high official in a feared guild with plenty of gold to live comfortably on to a runaway who constantly had to look over their shoulder in fear of what would be there with a knife in their hand—she prepared a small fire and slowly eased herself upon a small sleeping bag laid out.

She was far from a hysterically optimistic little girl, yet she felt close to breaking down at any moment. She was tired, her bones throbbing and her muscles sore. She had not a decent meal with her fellow comrades since she could remember—in fact, she thought the very idea of interacting with another person who didn't have the intention to kill her felt like an eternity ago.

All she wanted to do was sleep and dream away reality. If she had her small amulet, she would have gently twirled it in her fingers as it wrapped around her neck. Trying to stave from any bitter thoughts, Sanguine went through her bag and pulled out another set of clothes. Yawning from the long journey, Sanguine took off her fur boots and went to pull some wool socks over her toes.

Her bare skin tensed in pain as an internal cave breeze caused her to have a shivering fit. The sharp and menacing cold made her wish she had been born a Nord.

The sound of a million creaks caused Sanguine to jump to her feet, her bare feet digging into the frozen dirt of the ground. She already had her dagger unsheathed, her back postured in awareness as she stared to the other side of the cave where the door was wide open and a silhouette stopped the sunlight from adding light to the interior of the cave.

Black robes caused her heart to freeze, but she stood her ground.

"My, you seem ill prepared, Sanguine." A voice she hardly recognized danced off the walls of the cave in an echo. It was the rich velvety voice that normally belonged to the Breton race. Off in the shadows, she saw a figure, watching her.

"Who are you?" Sanguine demanded, hoping some intimidation would reflect in her voice. Instead, she sounded like the very scared little girl she thought had died many years before. But it was back. Never had she truly felt her life to be in danger since.

"We weren't formally introduced." The man stepped out into the soft luminescence of the mushrooms in the cave, his face shadowy but clearly that of her assailant back in Bravil. "My name is Mathieu Bellamont. And I am here to kill you." The assassin slowly pulled the wooden door shut, the rusted hinges squeaking painfully while the door stole all the light from the cave.

The only light left came from the dying fire pit that Sanguine had created.

"How did you find me?" Sanguine took another step forward, prepared at any moment to leap to attack.

"It wasn't hard. I simply followed the trail." Bellamont walked up to Sanguine, his face lined and gaunt with that of a half starved man. He held out his knife, a taut smirk upon his lips.

Sanguine took her hand and with the lower part of her palm went to jab it at Bellamont's nose. But he was just as fast as she was, catching her wrist with the hand that held the dagger while swinging the back of his hand at her face.

The force of the impact threw her off balance, and Bellamont quickly kicked at her ankle, causing her to fall upon the ground in a crumpled mass.

"How disappointing," Bellamont quietly murmured, moving his knife thoughtfully. "I was hoping for a challenge."

Sanguine awoke to the sudden gasp of air that her lungs ripped through her lips. Her entire body felt agonizingly sore; her heart trembling in her chest. And she felt cold—far too frozen that every limb was numb. She could barely move her fingers. She forced herself up, moving and waving her body around to warm herself. This wasn't living—this was barely called survival.

She hissed as her body tingled in pain. It was as though the circulation had been cut off. She needed to make another fire. She needed to stay warm. As she knelt down and went to start a new pile of wood, her body began to regain its senses. She was again, alert.

While she worked, her mind began to wander—plans of escaping to Skyrim arose. A desire to start anew. But she immediately dismissed it, not taking the fleeting dream seriously. She was going to stay there, and fight.

Even with the scum she once called family nipping at her heels, there was another underlying mission she promised herself long ago. And she had put it off, telling herself to keep preparing—to keep training until she was ready.

It was now or never. She wasn't planning to die until all loose ends were tied.


	9. The Loss of a Sister

Bellamont rode his horse—a tall black steed whose coat glistened in the moonlight like a mirror as he ascended up the mountainous path. It was lightly snowing, the flakes absorbing all the sound around him.

He hardly had any leads of Sanguine's whereabouts—merely the occasional Imperial Watchman who recognized her description. But he came prepared.

Her amulet would lead him to her—with the aid of the tricks of a former Mages Guild Evoker, the amulet pulling him toward his target. He had the necklace wrapped around his wrist, the fine metal growing hotter as he approached his destination. Already, he felt blisters begin to form as the jewelry became scalding on the back of his hand. He made sure that his palms were uninjured—so he would be able to use his knife without any pain on his part.

Still, his eyes were sharp and his teeth were bared with the excitement of the prospective hunt. He was eager to make his attack.

Knowing how dangerous it was to simply waltz in the front door, he had to make a tactical approach. The moon was mostly full, but his eyes still were easily accustomed to the dark. He dismounted his horse, securing his animal the closest bolder. With enough rope, he ensured the beast would remain still.

He took out his blade, a steel dagger holding a powerful ice enchantment. Adorned in his thick black leather armor, his footsteps were barely audible under the muffled crunch of the snow on the ground. He carefully wrapped the amulet in a filthy rag, placing it inside of his pocket.

The only entrance to the cave was through the wooden door, easily giving up any advantage of surprise.

He had to be quick to make his target helpless. And he wanted her completely helpless.

He took the door, pushing it open and taking a quick step into the cave. Nothing but darkness and the occasional glow from the luminescent mushrooms were bringing light. His eyes adjusting, he closed the door, slamming it shut.

He needed his presence known. He needed her to come to him. He muttered an incantation, charming himself with the gift of nighteye.

Shrouded in a blue inked world, Bellamont glided down the sloped cave, venturing deeper inside the musty hole. A dripping noise from afar and the ringing that only silence could bring sharpened Mathieu's senses.

She was there. He could smell it. Tamika's wine and Nightshade, the combination that immediately brought him back to that night in Bravil.

Out of instinct he slashed behind him, spinning his body and just barely missing his victims' throat. She ducked, rolling a few meters from him and leaping back upon her feet. She held her bow, an arrow trained at his heart while her breathing was labored.

Though he merely could see her in the plain blue hue, her cheeks were darker than they should have been—sweat was dripping down her forehead while it seemed that steam was flying off of her skin. She appeared ill, as though with infection or some disease.

Yet she still stood with her legs slightly apart, balanced perfectly without flinching as he waited for her to release the bowstring. He'd need to dodge it but knock her off of her feet. Disarm her.

The sound of her releasing the arrow broke our eyecontact, and Bellamont flung to the wall, hugging it as the arrow dug deep into the wooden door. The heavy thud of the wood being violated along with the spray of splinters was marvelous to look at. The rain of wooden shards and dust would have been an almost comical visual of his entertainment had he any time to stop and gawk.

He launched myself forward toward the woman, grabbing the bow and pulling it violently away from her. She refused to let go, her body being pulled with him as well. As she flew toward his chest by the momentum of his pull, he was almost stabbed in the groin by a knife she pulled out. Instead, he kicked her hand, enjoying the cry of pain that escaped her mouth.

Then, he punched her sharply in the face, feeling the crunch of her nose cartilage under his knuckles.

He was surprised at how easily she fell to her side, dazed and exhausted. It had struck her with more force than he intended it to. Still, he knew this would make everything easier. Her face was covered in her own blood, her nose broken and gushing freely down her cheeks and neck.

In the dark, Mathieu prepared to tie her up with torn pieces of her shirt and pants. He noted how warm her skin felt—too searing hot for her to be healthy. She was indeed ill; which explained how she easily failed at providing him with an entertaining battle.

It was far too cold in the cave, and out of the strangest wave of pity, he decided to build a fire. He carried her bound form to the makeshift bed she had prepared deeper into the cave. The small fire pit nearby had recently been distinguished—evidence that she had been aware of his presence for some time.

The assassin placed his victim upon her sleeping bag. The boiling hot metal that was vibrating in his pocket reminded him of how to end the charm placed upon it. He took it out, never flinching at the sting that the necklace gave him and gently placed it around the woman's neck.

Back with its owner, the trinket calmed down. And the elaborate velvet red gem in the center seemed to illuminate upon the girl's pale skin—like blood spilled under the moonlight.

It took a while to start a new one, and during this time Sanguine hardly moved. She was beginning to tremble, her perspiring merely increasing.

Bellamont patiently waited, feeding the fire and taking in his surroundings. This was to be the serene moment of the day—silence, peace, and the electricity of anticipation thick in the air. He waited, sharpening his knife while watching her. After a while, his nighteye spell ceased, and all around him it was dark. Merely the dancing flames in front of him were the source of light and warmth in the terrible cold.

Her nose has stopped bleeding, and was already beginning to darken with a healthy bruise like a blossoming rose spreading open and rotting away. Her wrists and ankles were bound, her dark hair tangled and wild in a cascade around her head.

She was nowhere near being the healthy little vixen he had fought earlier. It was somewhat unfair—how he merely came across the fawn in the bear trap. There was no chase—no excitement or thrill.

All disappointment evaporated once the woman's eyes exploded open and she swiftly rolled to her side. She sat up but was incapable of going far—as she pulled at her restraints, she bared her teeth and sent a hiss at Bellamont's direction.

He raised his blade and closed in upon the girl. She was much smaller than him—even though they both were Bretons. Her figure was small and frail; so fragile especially in the circumstances.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Her voice was hoarse and nasal due to her damaged nose. Bellamont couldn't help but admire her spirit.

"I was sent by Sithis to end your life." Bellamont muttered in monotony, reaching over to grab Sanguine by the base of her neck. "But I was given full liberty to do as I wished first."

A daring smile cracked on her lips, and the warmest spittle struck Bellamont upon the cheek. She had angrily spat at him, her eyes almost capable of disintegrating.

Mathieu hoped that she would continue this struggle—it excited him and brought a strange sense of respect for her. No one had ever treated him with such bravery and reckless abandon before. They all cowered—begged for mercy. But not her.

He was beginning to see what Lucien Lachance admired about her. Which made it sweeter knowing he would be the one to silence her forever. And the Dark Brotherhood was giving him full authority to do so. To destroy her, and justify it as a means of vengeance. The delicious irony of it all.

He took a fistful of her hair, enjoying the silkiness, and used it to wipe off the saliva off of his cheek. The strongest scent of a metallic flora greeted his senses, invigorating his bloodlust while he closed his eyes to savor the sensation.

The shocking grip of her teeth upon his neck broke all enjoyment. It was amazing how far this woman would go through to defend herself, and had he not provided a swift punch into her lower stomach she would have bitten hard enough to rip out his jugular.

It was as though he was dealing with a rabid wolf, his throbbing throat evidence enough. "You're passionate," Mathieu softly whispered, running the tip of his blade down her cheek and drawing more blood from her face. It would have scarred nicely, had he intended to let her live. "And I'm glad you won't go down without fighting tooth and nail. But in the end you're going to be screaming for me to stop."

She let out a yowl, trying her best to inflict any more pain upon him. But unlike her, his hands were free. And he had a sick sense of delight in how she squirmed and bit wildly in his direction. She wasn't civilized—she was a demon. Wild, hungry, and ravenous.

He grabbed her jaw, pulling her close to his face. Breathing upon her face, feeling her cringe and still move her head violently, in an attempt to give him a hard time. He wanted her still—to obediently comply to his assault. But still, her frisking around wildly fanned the flames to his violent arousal.

After a few more minutes of her thrashing, she finally stilled her body to glare him directly in the eye. Anger, hatred, and a stubborn strength reflected behind dark irises. Her face held such a terrible beauty that chilled him to the bone.

"May Sithis and the Night Mother forever have you," she hissed, baring her teeth just slightly as she growled at him.

He would enjoy carving her heart out. There was a cold anger that rushed through the man with her words. She dared to curse him in such a way. "You chose this," Mathieu Bellamont softly whispered as he flicked his knife close to her cheek, "Your loyalty to the Brotherhood is your downfall."

Sanguine said nothing in reply, but merely glared at him with a fire that she felt would eat her alive. He was far too close to her, the intimacy of their encounter what she focused her stress upon. She needed to think quickly.

The ropes were tight and secure. Her fingers couldn't reach for any sharp stone or useful object to free herself. Her ankles were bound together, making all fleeting thoughts to just jump up and sprint into the shadows of the cave foolish.

Biting her lip, Sanguine could only do the one thing she'd ever do. Cling onto her pride and go down. For the first time, she knew that she was not to be the victor. But she would accept her loss but still hold onto what little she had left. She wouldn't let this slave of the Black Hand win.

"You better make every second count," Sanguine sneered, cocking her head to the side.

Bellamont's face morphed into light bewilderment, then changed. He was grinning, with enough maliciousness to slightly phase the woman. "You have no idea how much I will enjoy this."

"Oh, I'm sure I can estimate," Sanguine softly retorted, blinking as the gleam of Bellamont's dagger reflected the light of the nearby fire.

"You think that by insulting me and keeping your chin erect, you will still hold a sense of victory when you die. But you'll be disappointed." Bellamont leaned forward to the woman, her face so smooth and pale that he desperately needed to run a finger over it. He did, feeling the sensuous flesh that was warm and welcoming. "For you see, you were exiled for the crimes that I committed. But don't worry, I intend to have Lachance join you soon enough."

Her lips slightly parted while her eyes widened. Shock. It was good, for Bellamont took much pleasure with her expression. It suited her, the look of horror that melted over her face.

"Good night, Sanguine," Bellamont whispered, enjoying that line. Finding the irony somewhat comforting as he took his knife and dug it into her cheek and dragged it smoothly down to her neck. The crimson that flowed was like a delicious ambrosia that he leaned over and ran his tongue over to taste.

It was sweet and metallic, the fluid warm and inviting. He took his time, cutting her until the very last breath released out of her body.

While Sanguine felt the sharp metal dig into her flesh, she refused to cry out or yell. She made no noise except for the involuntary whimper when he jerked his dagger far too roughly and quickly for her to brace against. Gritting her teeth, she felt herself grow weaker and weaker—the electrical pain that seared her so unbearable that she was hallucinating stars across her vision and a delusional frame of mind drowned her.

She was going to die.

She was to die.

She was dying.

She was about to die.

And then, everything around her simply vanished.


End file.
